


Neunion~ Second Son

by hauntedpoem



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Babysitting, Cooking, Cousin Incest, Curiosity, Domestic, F/M, Family Secrets, Fascination, Little Brothers, M/M, Music, Pining, Pre-Relationship, Romance, Slice of Life, Slow Burn, Valinor, Years of the Trees, cousins getting friendly, house of Nolofinwe and house of Feanaro
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-17
Updated: 2017-04-17
Packaged: 2018-10-20 06:23:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10656750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hauntedpoem/pseuds/hauntedpoem
Summary: Makalaure and Turukano: family secrets.





	Neunion~ Second Son

**Author's Note:**

> Taking into account that the action takes place in the Year of the Trees, Aman, before any falling out between the elves and long before Melkor is released, all names are in Quenya.  
> \---------
> 
> List of names:
> 
> *Finwë -Ñoldóran, High King of the Noldor  
> *Curufinwë (Q, fn)- "Skilful Finwë"/Fëanáro (Q, mn)- "spirit of fire" = Feanor  
> *Nerdanel  
> Fëanáro’s sons:  
> *Nelyafinwë (Q, fn) - "Finwë the Third", shorter form Nelyo, Maitimo (Q, mn)- "Well-shaped One", Russandol (Q, epessë)- "Copper-top”= Maedhros  
> *Kanafinwë (Q, fn)- "Strong-voiced Finwë", shorter form Káno, a noun which means "commander"; Makalaurë (Q, mn)- "Gold-cleaver" =Maglor  
> *Turcafinwë (Q, fn), "Strong, powerful(in body) Finwë", Tyelkormo (Q, mn) meaning "Hasty-riser";shortened to Tyelko - swift/ agile/ hasty = Celegorm  
> *Morifinwë (Q, fn) -"Dark Finwë", short Moryo; Carnistir (Q, mn)- "Red-face" = Caranthir  
> *Curufinwë (Q, fn)- "Skillful [son of] Finwë", Curvo- short form; Atarincë (Q, mn)/ Atarinkë -"Little Father"= Curufin  
> Ambarussa (Q, mn):  
> *Pityafinwë (Q, fn), "Little Finwë"; short form- Pityo;  
> *Telufinwë (Q, fn)- "Last [of] Finwë", short Telvo;  
> \--  
> *Ñolofinwë (Q, fn)- "Wise Finwë", Aracáno (Q, mn) -"High Chieftain"= Fingolfin  
> *Anairë (Q)- "Holiest"  
> His children:  
> *Findekáno (Q, fn)- ("hair") + káno ("commander")= Fingon  
> *Turukáno (Q, fn) - káno ("commander")= Turgon  
> *Írissë (Q), Ar-Feiniel, "White Lady of the Noldor"= Aredhel  
> * Arakáno -"High Commander" = Argon (S)  
> -  
> solfège note names: do, re, mi, fa, sol, la and ti.  
> -  
> title: Neunion (Q) – Second Son (neuna+-ion)  
> -  
> Enjoy!

It was Makalaurë’s turn to supervise the twins, who although past their puberty, were still prone to trouble, the last one being setting the shed on fire. It didn’t help that Findekáno brought another cousin to the mix.

Arakano was at the age where he was most prone to cause mischief, curious and unrelenting as a dog with a bone - if no one tempered and steered that burning curiosity into something productive. His presence, combined with the restless twins was the perfect ingredient for disaster. The child, kept secluded into Nolofinwë’s court, had been deprived of the company his own age and now, he was catching up in spades.

He preoccupied himself with his harp for a while, always keeping an eye on the three mischief-makers. This one was small enough to carry everywhere but needed tuning badly and Makalaurë feared some of the strings needed replacing. Although he didn’t want to spend all day playing at tutor, Makalaurë took pleasure in sharing his art with others.

In fact, it was one of the things he saw himself do over and over again: teach and open minds and hearts to the joys of music. He had assignments of his own, he had yet to finish transcribing a suite for strings he promised his professor in Alqualondë and if that wasn’t much work, it still required complete attention to detail. He much preferred playing with alternate pieces for harp.

The Chamber Orchestra of Formenos always invited him to play at festivals. In fact, it was Makalaurë’s presence that drew so many people in. Formenos was not particularly famous for its musicians, it was behind Alqualondë and the Teleri by far, but ever since Fëanáro decided to spend summer holidays there, some elves decided to pursue music seriously. Most of them Noldor, and all of them incensed by the second son of the High King.

Now the twins were climbing the knotty rope into their tree house and argumentative as ever, their cousin fought them to be first who stepped foot into the construction.

“Ambarussa, be civil! You too, Arakáno!”

His voice was strong and he willed it to be stern. The little rascals quietened immediately, yet Makalaurë could hear them grumble and mumble at his expense. Let them, he thought.

“Do-re-mi-fa-sol-la-ti-do…” Makalaurë sang the solfeggio with an unwavering voice. The last syllable penetrated the autumn air with its vibrato. Makalaurë tried another one in a different scale. And then another. The little rascals were at it again, probably mocking his concentration.

“I will skin you alive, Telvo!” His fingers plucked the chords with dexterity. There, he found the one that needed replacing.

“But how…?” he heard their cousin ask in amazement. How did Makalaurë know it was Telvo? It was simple. His hearing was well-trained to tell the twins apart from each other. Even in the dark, Makalaurë was better than even their father at telling things apart. “… Do…”

“What is he doing?” Questioned their cousin, now completely absorbed with Makalaurë’s practice. Makalaurë could see his head popping out of the small window. Arakáno was so tall, taller than the twins but then again, Ñolofinwë’s children were all tall and gracious, dark haired and grey-eyed, typical of their Noldorin ancestry. “What are you doing?" he shouted and Makalaurë could hear the twins chiding him “He can hear you!”.

It seemed Arakáno had quite enough of the twins and now descended, wormlike from the tree, his long feet landing carefully on the ground and approaching Makalaurë with astounding speed.

He was so tall, Makalaurë kept thinking as Arakáno sat beside him cross-legged.

“What it is exactly that you’re doing?” he asked in a sweet child voice that Makalaurë liked so much. It was melodious and soft, so unlike that of Ambarussa. Perhaps, one day and with enough help and dedication, Arakáno would make a good singer.

“I’m practising. This… - he began repeating what he was doing- is called a solfeggio.” Arakáno ’s eyes sparkled with interest. Unlike his own, the colour of mithril, his cousin’s eyes hid a bluish tint to them. He looked solemn, too serious for a child. Tenderly, Makalaurë ran a hand through his cousin’s hair, combing fragments of leaves from it.

“Here, repeat after me, child.”

And Arakáno did. His voice was unsure yet delicate. “What are these syllables, cousin?”

It was good that he was curious and showed a modicum of interest in Makalaurë’s art.

“I’ll tell you soon enough, cousin,” he countered, getting up and straightening the fabric of his grey tunic and breeches. “I’ll go to retrieve some strings for my harp and then I’ll teach you the basics, why don’t you wait here for me?”

The child was obedient, something he expected from all of Ñolofinwë’s heirs, except perhaps Írissë and to some extent Findekáno.

Makalaurë was not blind as to why his cousin kept visiting their house when his parents were away. A long time ago, he found out about his brother’s proclivities and love of men. That it happened to be Findekáno, only put his heart at ease. At least their cousin would never hurt his brother, not after he swore on his knees before Makalaurë’s very eyes that he will love Nelyo- his Russandol- forever, that there was no other for him.

Nights spent alone with his brother were always an occasion for confessions. Nelyo would tell him about his Finno and their plans. To move away in the cold North of Formenos. To be together if the whole world proved hateful of their relations. He then confessed his greatest fear. If these incestuous relations would draw the anger and the punishment of the Valar. They were adults, they were consenting, they promised themselves to one another.

But Makalaurë remembers a time when Findekáno was no more than a child and his brother an unlucky bachelor- the third maiden has broken her promise to him. No one knew the reasons why but Makalaurë started suspecting it was because Nelyo did not feel any sort of attraction for the female kind. Instead, whenever he took Nelyo with him to one of his concerts in Alqualondë, his brother would always remember the males that were introduced to them.

Sometimes, the spark in his eyes would intensify if his searching gaze were returned most of the times; he would crumple into himself when his eyes fell on dead, passionless ones. His proclivities were rare among their kind, he was to find. And even if they were not so rare, they were kept hidden like secrets of the forbidden. The elders preached marriage and the begetting of children, after all.

Makalaurë entered the house and took the stairs with easy steps. He opened the door to his room and searched the drawers for strings. He kept a sundry of parts belonging to musical instruments and the messy state of the room belied his penchant for order, especially when it came to his passion, to his work. Music was his everything. Makalaurë could not fathom the idea of someone entering his life and altering that for him. There was no Findekáno for him. He took the necessary envelopes of strings and placed them in his pockets. Then he remembered he had the perfect material to show a novice and headed to the music room, not far from his.

In there, Makalaurë stored not only instruments but also written materials on music and had plenty of copies of his compositions, some of them dutifully transcribed by Atarinkë’s steady hand when he went through one of his crisis of metal creation. He amassed a decent library of compositions and theoretical tomes and he believed he had the right text to start his impetuous cousin, Arakáno on his musical journey.

Instead, he found the vast room occupied, by no other than his cousin Turukáno, whose presence he has forgotten about. Turukáno was the tallest of them all. He surpassed in height even their grandfather, Finwë. His brow was gentle and promised great wisdom but his cheeks were flushed and his lips pulsing red with blood. It reminded Makalaurë of wild berries he would collect in the heat of summer from Formenos’ hedges.

“Turukáno,” he gasped in surprise. He did not expect his cousin in the music room at all. After all, everyone knew Turukáno was preparing for his degree in letters, the first honour of many to come. He was the shy, studious type and Makalaurë couldn’t help but gaze at him with pleasantness – he quite preferred him to his sister or their other cousins. Findarato had his talents, it was true, but Makalaurë could not erase the thought that his parents have found his teachers among strangers of Alqualondë instead of his own cousin. It sometimes felt like a slap in the face, considering the admiration that Arafinwë supposedly bore for his half-brother.

Despite the fact that Ñolofinwë was never welcome in Fëanáro’s house, his children were, even though at their father’s insistence. At least, Ñolofinwë recognised the indisputable talent of a Feanorian education and sent them several times a month to learn art, letters and crafts from the prince, his wife and their sons.

Findekáno was one of those students, shy at first but a good student of letters, history and music. Turukáno, has instead shown a great propensity for politics and philosophy. He wrote essays and perfected his expression to one that the elders looked highly upon. Soon, he would present what he has learned in front of the Valar and they would deem him a master or tell him to go back to his studies and perfect his knowledge. There was always room for improvement, for there were degrees to such honours and Turukáno, although quite talented from what Makalaurë has gathered, did not rush into prving himself.

He eyed the youth with questioning eyes. And his curiosity spiked as Turukáno turned away from him as if in shame.

“Turukáno, cousin,” he moved quickly, light ion his foot only to place a reassuring hand on his cousin’s tense shoulder. “Is there something wrong?” Worry laced his voice, making it deeper, rich like honey, intimate. A shiver ran through the youths’ spine and Makalaurë felt the minute tremble of muscles rearranging themselves.

His hand grew warm, familiar. “It’s fine, talk to me, cousin.”

Then he heard it. Loud enough to pierce the whole house. A moan, so intimate and full of passion it could not be doubt as to its provenience. Nelyo and Finno. Lust reverberated from the walls. He should have guessed. How reckless they’ve become!

Turukáno looked back at him, terrified but he was a man now, he surely must have understood its message, although his flushed cheeks spoke volumes. He was uncomfortable and confused.

“That was my brother.” He spoke softly, as if afraid that the words would betray him. “I heard Maitimo as well.”

Their fate was probably sealed. His hand hardened on the back of his cousin, his fingers became claw-like with fear for his brother. Their father would be livid. Their uncle would destroy him, especially after the incident in the public square.

His voice was lead, its resonance austere and final.

“So now you know.”

Turukáno’s eyes were a dull blue-grey, Noldo, their light discreet and contained, unlike that of the Feanorions. “All dullards and second hand material,” he heard his father mutter one day after a particularly trying lesson he had with a young and fearful Findekáno. He remembers his brother disagreeing and taking upon himself the basics of their cousin’s education. His brother, holding the boy in his arms, braiding his hair, washing his back, kissing his forehead, singing him to sleep. And now they were lovers, the dissonant music of their hard lovemaking permeating the September air, unsettling dust from his music notes, making the old cello echo their moans, their grunts, their screams of copulation in its hollow heart.

A shudder passed through Makalaurë.

His brother, always so close with their cousin, even when he was but a child. He was suspecting but there had been no shade of confusion to cloud Findekáno ’s eyes, no sign of violation upon his body, no animalistic, satisfied grunt of orgasm in the depths of night. Makalaurë did not sleep through most of those nights, composing assiduously his first major concerto. Writing lyrics and notes and pauses in his head. No, his brother waited and waited, probably deluding himself over a maiden or two, then trying to meet up with elves that shared his sexuality. He’d heard him pleasuring himself and it was not Findekáno, their child-cousin’s name on his lips.

It put him at ease. His brother was probably the kindest of them all. His love could not be judged, except for his cousin, Finno, and now Finno wedded him in secret, under the stars of Varda, in the clearing facing the lake on a quiet summer night in Formenos. Makalaurë sang at their union and then he left, not looking back, knowing very well that the disturbed earth he found next day and the crumpled leaves and flowers bore the shape of the two lovers’ bodies.

It was long before that that his brother shared his dreams with him, his deepest desires, and his fantasies. If it weren’t for Makalaurë, they would have consumed him from the inside like turbulent mist does to flowers in spring.

And now, his tall, quiet cousin Turukáno has discovered this well-kept secret.

“They’re lovers,” Makalaurë whispered, his voice silently begging his cousin to not panic and announce it to his father, or worse, to their grandfather who just issued an act on morals and marriage.

Such timid eyes, and quivering lips. If he looked closely, Makalaurë could distinguish a rare band of pale ochre surrounding his cousin’s iris. So close, they were. With finality, he willed his gaze away only to have it land on the evidence of Turukáno’s arousal. Yes, the boy, not wise enough to be called man yet, would understand. Lust spoke to him in the same way, after all. Through the walls, he distinctly heard his brother’s keening voice.

“Finno…”

It was easy to imagine him, penetrated from behind as their cousin pushed him into furniture with a rough shove of his hips, a sign of his urgent desire and the unlimited permission of his dominion over the willing body of Nelyo. And other reminders, such as the smell of the room afterwards, of sated lust and spilt seed, already dried on the wooden floor of Maitimo’s study.

Did Findekáno pull his hair?- for Makalaurë always found long, broken strands on the floor, proof that his brother liked to be dominated by their cousin this intimately and in turn, loved to dominate him.

Makalaurë has seen- once only, and only by mistake, in one of his delirious walks through the woods, his mind set on finding the perfect note to a harmony. Only sound did call to him on those outings and he did not expect to hear the pants of exertion bearing Findekáno’s desire, a vibrato he swore he would capture if only he knew how.

He sat in his brother’s lap, and Nelyo, tall as he was, towered over their cousin’s form. The muscle in Finno’s thighs quaked as he willed himself to maintain the position, hard as it was as his body was claimed by Nelyo’s rhythmic thrusts. He watched the picture transform before his eyes, the sweaty golden skin, merging with the pale, freckled one of his brother’s, the dark, gold adorned braids lashing like whips as a curtain of russet obscured the ecstasy on his face. Then, the image changed again, as a tired Finno pushed himself upright and tried in vain to keep the moisture from running down his thighs. His brother’s laughter, his hand, possessive as it pulled his cousin back into his lap, fingers darting to his passage, trembling with use.

He couldn’t shake that image out of his mind. It haunted him for days.

“Do not worry, he said, as if through a dream, and his cousin’s pupils turned big like spheres of obsidian in his one of Nerdanel’s necklaces. “They love each other. There is none other for my brother as there is none other for yours. They, the first sons of their fathers, joined spirits under the stars. Their secret is Varda’s to keep and mine to guard and now…” - he whispered and touched his cousin’s cheek then delicately gripped him by the chin, “it is yours as well.”

Makalaurë clutches his shoulder and veers him towards the exit. Their steps are cushioned by woven rugs and the whole house seems to have quietened once their brothers finished in exhaustion, he likes to imagine.

He is so tall, Makalaurë fears he will soon surpass Nelyo, his brother. Together, they step into the garden, on the other side of the house, and Makalaurë’s eyes scan the grounds for the three brothers.

“Arakáno!” He calls and from the tree-house, his cousin answers enthusiastically.

“I decided to teach your younger brother the basics of music.” He says as if they didn’t just overhear their brothers’ lovemaking. Turukáno ’s blush faded from the cool air, although his hands were lying clasped in front of him. Makalaurë chose to ignore it as he called for the two Ambarussa as well.

“Come down for dinner!”

Then, in a commanding voice, “Come down here or I’ll lock you in the library!” This elicited a small laughter from Turukáno, now looking more at ease with the situation.

“Come, help me with the boys, cousin.”

He was awkward as he was tall, sitting there at the table with them. Long legged, dressed in those blue, tight fitting breeches of his. Silver silk embroidered brocade. Leaves and berries- such good taste, such rich taste yet not ostentatious at all.

His cousin always chose blues and greys- all pale and faded, not strong to make him out in a large crowd. No rings on his long, manicured fingers. He wore a summer tunic in ivory, whose rolled sleeves had been buttoned away neatly. Abalone buttons, if he peered closer, Makalaurë could see the fine chain of a mithril necklace, hanging down on his cousin’s chest, hiding perhaps a dear and precious pendant.

For a second he looked forlornly at the unclean table, filled with spilt oil and blotches from yesterday’s soup, he could see right in front of Turukáno ’s seat the dried yellow yolk from this morning’s breakfast.

Who was it? Maybe Pityo, who never cared for stillness at the eating table, always kicking his twin across from him. Arakáno ate quietly, in between Finno and my brother, who fed him bacon from his hand and handed him a handkerchief to wipe the grease from his lips. That morning Finno conversed with him casually, lightly touching him from time to time but Makalaurë knew that his eyes were expertly trained on his brother who made sure the twins finished all from their plate, including the crusts of bread.

He remembers that Turukáno did not partake in breakfast. He must be famished, then.

“Good boys, he praised them. My sweet, good boys!” Then they darted towards him, always forgetting about their growing size and Maitimo struggled to hold them. “Look how you’ve grown, my big boys!”

Makalaurë watches enraptured his brother being a brother, almost a father to Ambarussa. He sometimes muses whether he and Finno wish for children of their own. Of course, that remains a dream, but Makalaurë is convinced that if it were possible, Nelyo would demand no less than seven.

Tyelkormo and Írissë appear in the kitchen several moments later, wild and dishevelled looking. He tries not to approve of Findekáno’s searching gaze directed at his sister.

“Greetings,” they both guffaw and Makalaurë realises they’re both tipsy and red faced.

“Welcome brother, cousin,” Makalaurë sets two chairs for them but unsurprisingly, Tyelko pulls Írissë in his lap and they both start laughing, drawing his others brothers in the ensuing mayhem.

He smiles, almost forgetting the mess that follows as he lets the twins ladle the soup. Dutifully, Turukáno follows his indications and takes the bread out of the cupboard and the cheese and a jar of olives in green. His large hands can hold many things at once and Makalaurë watched the tendons in fascination. His cousin has such a beautiful skin, as if he’s been made to live in the library among books and never touch a forge or weed the garden or do the laundry or wash the floors. Again, the Feanorians did not have house servants, unlike Ñolofinwë and his family.

Tyelkormo has brought them cured ham and Maitimo cut generous portions until there was nothing left. The twins love eating meat, just as his wild brother.

They eat in relative silence and Makalaurë makes haste of his soup by slurping it rapidly without chewing the vegetables. As the second oldest among them, he knows he should be an example but places the harp on the table after wiping the crumbs away with a dishrag. He meticulously proceeds to change the few overused steel chords and tunes the instrument patiently. Arakáno watches him with huge eyes. 

The twins have finished their slurping as well. Less obviously, he notices Turukáno’s eyes darting wildly from Tyelko and Írissë to him. For just about a second, he looks shocked, then the surprise melts as understanding settles in. of course, now he knows about them as well.

Írissë and Tyelkormo retreat, saying they’ll prepare the horses.

He smiles to himself. As Arakáno finishes his side of olive-bread, Makalaurë begins humming different scales, just to warm up a bit. He strums the harp into a light-hearted melody and the ease and adorableness of the melody calm down the twins.

When they all finish, although a bit reluctant, he asks Tyelko and Írissë if they would take Turukáno to fish or hunt. Turukáno’s eyes widen in disbelief- he throws Makalaurë a vulnerable look but his jaw is set as he nods his assent. He knows he shouldn’t take advantage of him but this is an opportunity for a more peaceful day and he trusts Turukáno. For some reason, he cannot stand having those huge, serious eyes upon him, not after what he’d overheard.

When his cousin rises to leave, Makalaurë’s hand stops him, warm and tingly on his pale skinned arm.

“I’ll lend you some of my clothes.” He almost whispers, the words clogged in his throat. He leaves Arakáno to peruse the beginner's book and promises to return soon so that they’ll sing. Arakáno is shy and the mere idea of singing in front of his cousins makes him nervous.

He walks briskly, making noise so that his presence is known to his brother upstairs. He slams the door open and knows that Turukáno takes in the view- dishevelled bed, papers everywhere, here and there a watercolour portrait of his mother, another of Atarinkë, blocking the light of the sun, a large harp in a corner, large enough to be carried by two people.

“I am sorry for the mess,” Makalaurë says needlessly. “Come in,” he invites and opens his armoire to hand his cousin his fishing clothes and a pair of light suede boots. Upon a second thought, he rummages some more for a straw hat. “Take this, cousin, your skin doesn’t like the harsh light of midday.” He hands it to Turukáno and for a second he freezes at the image of those large yet gracious hands on his. He doesn’t quite want to let go so he pushes Turukáno to sit on his bed and in a strange voice orders him to undress.

“I’ll take care of your clothes, cousin,” he says gruffly. Makalaurë’s eyes turn greedy as they travel down the milky torso of his cousin. Tall and sinewy, in between his rosy nipples rests an oval pendant and Makalaurë is tempted to lift it off him but to his surprise, Turukáno takes it off and hands it to him. Makalaurë’s fingers close over it, the metal burning from the accumulated body heat.

In Makalaurë’s grey clothes, Turukáno looks as handsome as a prince. Even in tatters, he’s still full of grace and poise.

“I’ll braid your hair,” Makalaurë offers and is pleased with Turukáno ’s gentle passivity. His hair is like a curtain of dark chestnut silk, the strands effortlessly falling into place, much like Makalaurë’s own mane, whose sleekness doesn’t allow an easy braid. However, Makalaurë’s fingers are nimble, like spiders spinning their nets. He manages a simple braid, intertwining it with a length of black leather to keep the hair from escaping the coils.

“There you go, he says” and his fingers linger unnecessarily on his cousin’s shoulders. His own hands are a bit roughened from housework and he knows the tips of his fingers are calloused from playing the strings. It’s a stark contrast when it comes to Turukáno ’s skin, so soft and unspoiled. “Please stay in the shade, cousin,” he whispers in his ear and takes delight seeing Turukáno shiver. “And come back immediately to me. I’ll ready you a bath.”

Turukáno has basic knowledge of fishing and is a decent sport- or so Írissë says whenever Nolofinwë’s children go hunting together- but he’s been a library mouse for too long to actually experience the golden light of Laurelin. Makalaurë would feel bad to see such perfect skin ruined but the thought of such quiet shy beauty locked away in a cold, dark room filled with the smell of moldy parchment appals him.

“I will, cousin,” Turukáno swallows hard, willing himself to be as stone, as is his father’s way.

“Keep an eye on my brother and your sister. They tend to wander quite far and I want meat for tonight’s meal.” There’s a dangerous spark in Makalaurë ’s eyes now, a flash of flinty grey that wasn’t there before. “I’ll wait for you here when you return,” Makalaurë says with finality and then kisses Turukáno ’s forehead, “We’ll speak tonight after dinner.”

Preparing meals for six brothers and several other cousins while keeping an eye on the twins is no easy task. Maitimo and Findekáno went horse riding – as if Nelyo didn’t have enough of riding for the day. Young Curufinwë was to come from Tirion along with their cousin Findarato and some maidens they’ve been wooing, Carnistir held a crafts workshop on the outskirts of Tirion and was to return late at night, alone and brooding as was his way, Turukáno left with Tyelko and Írissë to hunt and fish.

Besides, Arakáno proved to be a good and tenacious student and Makalaurë felt generous and lent him a smaller harp to exercise arpeggios and the twins calmed down considerably after their brother gave them the job of peeling potatoes and chopping onions. Makalaurë could be terrifying when he wanted to, his gentle demeanour slipping away. His voice had the quality to make you endure.

By the time they finished, the Ambarussa were in tears, wiping their pert little noses on their tunic sleeves. He hugged them fiercely and kissed their russet tops lovingly.

“My brave little Ambarussa,” Makalaurë called them and they climbed to hug him as if they were still toddlers. Arakáno watched the scene with wide-eyed curiosity, perhaps feeling left out but Makalaurë dragged him into an embrace as well, sweaty, warm and smelling of food.

“What do you say about a bath, and then some rest, my darlings?” he addressed all three kids and Arakáno smiled when he felt Makalaurë ’s gentle hands through his tangled hair. “You’ve helped enough for today.”

Starved for affection and gentle words, The feanorion suspected as much from the youngest son of Nolofinwë. Ever since he met his young cousin Findekáno, he realized that Nolofinwë and his wife have taken too much at heart the etiquette of high-living and considered hugging their own children to be bad manners. Findekáno has found that affection in Maitimo’s arms but seeing as the relationship between his father and Nolofinwë grew colder and colder, his young cousins did not benefit as much from the warmth and the boisterousness a large family could give.

On the stove in the kitchen, lay several huge pots of boiling water. Tyelko and irises were expected any minute with their share of hunting but Makalaurë did not extend his hopes when it came to the meal or the help they would give. If they would bring back skinned rabbits or pheasants, Makalaurë would be thankful, seeing as his brother and Írissë would rather do other things while away in their pursuits.

As usual, the twins made a mess of the floor. There was suds and water everywhere. In a corner, Arakáno managed to wash his hair using what little warm water was left, pouring it from a small bowl over the nape of his neck. Utterly exhausted, Makalaurë helped the children, put them in his parents’ large bed, pulled the curtains and descended to take care of the kitchen. In the quiet of the house, he could hear Írissë ’s clear laughter.

On the counter, waited for him two small rabbits, skinned and pink, the flesh gleaming in the golden light. Utterly annoyed at his brothers’ lack of concern for their meal, he began cutting the meat, steaming it with boiling water, then frying it in the pan.

“I wish I contributed more…” trailed a voice behind him, almost startling Makalaurë from his concentration. Turukáno looked positively dishevelled, although still solemn as always. The tips of his ears, his cheeks and his nose were red from the sun.

“Turukáno!”

His cousin gave him an awkward smile. “Thank you for the hat but at some point it became too bothersome, it’s windy near the river.”

“Oh”, he gasped in realization. Turukáno handed him a basket with five fish, as big as the palm of his hand. “it’s not much, I know.”

“Nonsense!” shouted Makalaurë, feeling suddenly guilty. He took him by the shoulders, steering him away from the steaming pots. “Go in the bath, there’s plenty of hot water in the boiler.” His fingers lingered a bit too long on his cousin’s back. “I’ll bring you towels.”

What was wrong with him? Makalaurë could almost slap his cheeks at his impertinence, treating Turukáno as a child when in all evidence he proved to be a man, well mannered and patient. Especially after realising the liaisons between his cousins and his brother and sister.

He brought him more than towels. He brought him his clothes, aired and steamed and well kept on a hanger, he brought Turukáno his own bath oils and salts, he brought him balm for his hair and a bone comb. He brought a new sponge and a new toothbrush, and eucalyptus oils and white clay. He brought him aloe vera leaves from the garden, to rub on his sunburnt skin.

Turukáno lies awkward in the water, his long feet bend at the knees, pale like marble unlike his face and hands and neck. His eyes looked then as blue as the sky, surrounded by a circle of ochre- the colours amplified by the sunburn.

“Here you are,” Makalaurë entered with a stack of towels and clothes, neatly placed atop the basket of oils. “Let me help you.”

Unwanted help, he was. Treating his cousin as if he were a child – and yes, compared to him, Turukáno was young by many years. Turukáno curled and uncurled his long slim limbs like a distressed bug, anticipating more torment.

“You're going to need this,” he pointed to the small dark bottle. “Minerals and oils will help your body relax.” He poured half of it into the water then added some salts. “This is for your skin,” he pointed at the aloe dumbly. Surely, Turukáno knew what it was for, he mentally chastised himself. “I’ll check on the food,” now Makalaurë exited the bath alarmingly fast, terrified that something burned or got ruined while he wasn’t there. Fortunately, he entered the kitchen to find Maitimo and Findekáno already setting the table, calm as always, working well together- it reminded him of his parents.

Half an hour later, Turukáno joined them downstairs guiding a bleary-eyed set of twins and his younger brother who seemed to knock every piece of furniture in front of him. Half through their preparation, Curufinwë arrived, sullen, his foul mood written on his handsome face. Findarato followed in his steps with an unreadable look about him. The last to arrive was Carnistir, carrying a basket full of spun wool from his crafts workshop. His hands were blue and purple from the dyes and he crept into a corner to wipe his face and hands with a dishrag.

Tyelko rmo and Írissë tucked the twins between them, making sure they got their bowls filled with vegetable soup before they reached the dessert which was a simple fruit salad over which Maitimo poured some chocolate liquor.

Turukáno minded his younger brother and waited calmly for Makalaurë to take the seat beside him. On the other side of Makalaurë at the oval table sat Carnistir, quietly waiting for the soup tureen to pass before him.

Turukáno was quiet when Findekáno placed the fried fish in the centre of the table and smiled at him meaningfully. The last thing he wanted was perhaps to be praised for something that wasn’t that amazing in the first place.

“Fish or stew?” Maitimo asked the children. The twins got each a fish, Arakáno shared one with his brother Turukáno , Maitimo shared one with Findekáno, Carnistir passed the rest to finrod and Curufinwë because Írissë and Tyelko rmo were still chatting over the cold vegetable soup.

It was almost stupid, but when Turukáno shared yet again his portion with Makalaurë it seemed almost as the sweetest thing. Only Carnistir would sacrifice his favourite foods for his brothers, mostly because he didn’t seem to be that attached to food as the rest of them. sitting like that and taking small bites off the white flesh of the fish seemed almost intimate, even though he had all his brothers at the table, eating and laughing.

After they arrived yesterday night, the cousins settled in nicely, Findekáno in Maitimo’s room, or rather his bed, Arakáno with his brother in the master bedroom, Írissë and Tyelkormo would usually disappear during the night, riding or star gazing and Findarato would share a room with Curufinwë, bickering well into the morning over some silly thing or gossiping about the Nolofinwions.

It was well past midnight and the light of Telperyon spread silvery upon the treetops of their property. The house was dark as usual during the night time. Makalaurë shared a bath with Carnistir. Dead tired as he was, he almost fell asleep in the tepid water. After helping him to his room and hearing him plop into his bed like an unfeeling weight, he returned down the corridor to his own room. Only to find Turukáno waiting there, curled like one of Tyelko’s kicked puppies, in front of his door. Asleep, with those knobby pale knees flowering purple bruises on the cold marble floor. His nightgown, too short for his too tall body, for at his age, although barely past his majority, Turukáno was taller than all of Finwë’s descendants, with the promise of an exception in form of his younger brother, Arakano.

He slept quietly, not budging from the cold slab, his spindly wrists wound around each other in a death grip, fingers – Makalaurë could only imagine- numb and frigid already. Makalaurë could admire determination. He could admire beauty and frailty; he could admire Turukáno ’s loyalty to keep a promise. To make him keep his promise.

He approached him quietly and gently released the hair caught in between his jaw and shoulder as he lied there, curled in that unnaturally supplicating form. Upon his touch, Turukáno’s body began to steer slightly, his muscles catching his cousin’s warmth, relaxing slightly. It was such an unusual position to find Turukáno who usually towered above the rest of all.

“Cousin?” he whispered and Makalaurë tried to pull him up but Turukáno was heavy and to his amusement, also very ticklish. “Stop!” he tittered and screeched like a baby owl into the night, provoking laughter from him as well, when he thought there was n energy left to spare for the rest of the night.

“Come, Turukáno. The floor’s cold.” He half pushed- half dragged him to the bed, untidy as ever. Makalaurë kicked some papers and turned on one of his father’s lamps- the Feanorian lamp that could lit a room without fire and without the burning of oil. Spirit of light caught inside the iridescent glass.

His room was more designed as a work- room, than a place to rest, Makalaurë ’s bed pushed towards the frigid wall, leaving an empty space that he filled with instruments among which a miniature piano, clothes, boots, fletched arrows, coal for drawing, empty glasses and glass bowls that he used for a project of his involving ethereal sounds.

He meandered among these with the grace of a feline, helping his cousin into his bed and throwing upon him a blanket Carnistir had woven as part of his workshop that very summer. Turukáno’s tall frame was covered from head to toe in red mohair and blue tassels. His hair, unlike that of his brother or father, fell into peaceful waves the colour of hazelnuts after rain. It was and it did feel soft, Makalaurë realised as he climbed the bed with the intention to coil at his cousin’s side, suddenly desiring the warmth of another’s body to banish the chill that overtook him.

“You wanted to speak,” said Turukáno while yawning at the same time. The words came out distorted but Makalaurë could make them out. He unfolded the goose down comforter he kept in the drawer under his bed and the relief of warmth and sleepiness engulfed him. His hand trailed back to Turukáno’s hair – he was used to detangling his little brother’s locks whenever the occasion demanded.

“Oh, Káno,” he murmured using the shorter name his own brothers called Makalaurë Kanafinwë from time to time because of his commanding voice which, they claimed, could make them do things just as he wanted them. “We’ll speak in the morning, after my brother and yours make us decent breaksfast.” Not one to back off from being a little bit mischievous, Makalaurë closed the lamp with a practiced movement and dragged the blanket over their heads as if he was about to let Turukáno on a big secret. Darkness surrounded them, only their breaths, hot and humid, filled the tight space. On Turukáno’s breath, he could hear the stuck words, struggling for a reply. He did not push for one, slightly appalled at his own crass manner of quieting his cousin down.

Darkness surrounded them, only their breaths, hot and humid, filled the tight space. On Turukáno ’s breath he could hear the stuck words, struggling for a reply. He did not push for one, slightly appalled at his own crass manner of quieting his cousin down.

He could hear Turukáno struggling not to take bigger gulps of air, his breath hitching and his body tensing like a coil of metal that their father submerged in cold water. The temperature was rising steadily but Makalaurë did not budge, unsure what to do. In his imagination, they were both trapped here. He could feel Turukáno’s knees bumping in his side, a foreign weight. His dark hair splayed down on his pillow, Makalaurë smells the soaps and oils so familiar to him. He can feel his cousin blinking and he knows he cannot fall asleep as long as they’re here. His arms feel excruciatingly heavy on his chest and there’s this strange thought in his head that tells him to snake them all over Turukáno ’s chest and embrace his cousin like one would a pillow. The silence of his held breath drives him crazy. He’s slept next to his brothers. He’s slept in Maitimo’s bed for a decade; he could fall asleep around others. He remembers Carnistir occupying all the space on the mattress and tugging at his hair and stealing his blanket, sometimes kicking him out of his own bed. He’s used to violence in asserting his right to his own space and he finds it confusing that someone could lie as still as a plank next to him and pretend for what feels like hours that they are asleep when they are obviously uncomfortable.

Makalaurë feels like biting his hands but the movement would give him away. He keeps his eyes closed but he feels Turukáno with every inch of his body, one naked leg warming up next to his own and as he brushed when better adjusting his position into his intended one, Makalaurë delighted in the soft and smooth skin, suddenly making him conscious of his hairy legs and callused feet, something to point out their differences further. None of Feanaro’s sons has skin as pale and smooth as a court’s maidens. None really wear inconspicuous sandals and airy robes and spend too much time indoors. They are not necessarily concerned with all the witless books written on a single subject, even when they are not necessary to comprehend its essence. Turukáno, instead, was known to engage in reading for hours in the coolness of Tirion’s marble halls, among rows and rows of books.

And he was the brother of Findekano and Irisse, two of the most popular mischief makers among Tirion’s nobility, the princes of mayhem, and both known for their inability to sit still through any lecture, both unable to bear the silence of a library. He could pit Arakano among these two. He was of the same material. Only Turukáno, the second, was the odd one.

Makalaurë felt him stir and took the opportunity to latch on his lean back like and octopus with its prey. He completely calmed down his breathing after a couple of deep breaths he didn’t know that he was holding. His hands felt the bony, sinewy frame. If he wished, he could have rested the palms of his hands on his cousin’s ribcage, feel each one of them, touch them like he would a xylophone. He buried his nose in Turukáno ’s back and he could feel his vertebrae and muscles, tense as always. With the other hand, he found himself wandering the planes of Turukáno ’s body and perversely, he almost took delight in his hitched breath.

“I cannot sleep either.” He muttered as an apology, the words like cotton balls from his mouth, his real regret caught in his trachea like a crumpled piece of paper. Makalaurë used to light the stove with a basket of those, mostly letters to his professors and colleagues, some to a certain woman until he gave up.

Instead of a reply he got another shaky breath, he could feel Turukáno allowing his weight to rest in his embrace. He was still as slow to warm up as a block of ice was to thaw in a freezing room. Turukáno must be the oddest cousin he had, except maybe for Nerwen but the difference could be applied to Carnistir as well, although in a different measure. They were all different in their oddness. For example, one could say that Turukáno was a model son, a good son, everything his father expected but Makalaurë heard enough from his cousin Findekano to put two and two together.

Sometimes it was much harder for Nolofinwë to understand his second born, as proper and apt to the study of letters, history and politics as he would have wanted his first son to be, it was much harder to grasp in understanding the dreamy expression he sometimes exuded and the singularity of purpose with which he went about his self-imposed tasks. His presence, although unquestioned from court life, as was expected of a young prince, despite the passivity of his stance on most of the sessions, became known as a vote of resistance, almost on par with Feanaro’s annoyance of the councillors.

For example, one could say that his cousin was a model son, a god son, everything his father expected but Makalaurë heard enough from his cousin Findekano to put two and two together. Sometimes it was much harder for Nolofinwë to understand his second born, as proper and apt to the study of letters, history and politics as he would have wanted his first son to be, it was much harder to penetrate with understanding the dreamy expression he sometimes exuded and the singularity of purpose with which he went about his self-imposed tasks. His presence, although unquestioned from court life, as was expected of a young prince, despite the passivity of his stance on most of the sessions, became known as a vote of resistance, almost on par with Feanaro’s annoyance of the councillors.

His cousin ruminated each idea presented to him, pondered its meaning and its usefulness, stood for hours in quiet contemplation, gave the appearance of one who would give a positive response and then surprised everyone when he retreated his support having found some obscure reason that nobody else thought of for its impossibility of implementation. Nolofinwë’s council had stalled in its deliberations more than once. Turukáno was impossible to derail, for when he spoke, he looked completely lost in the many corridors of his complex mind, relying on such architecture to draw truth and meaning to everything presented to his face.

Nolofinwe's second-born was a creature who baffled, not in the same manner that his own father did, with rousing pathos and acumen. He amazed and bewildered through his unaffected speech and through the meaning he revealed through his intricate thought process, putting to the front things nobody thought of as much. It was like watching a magician, an entertainer at work, pulling cards from the most improbable place, although Turukáno did not entertain but perplexed and presented more pieces to the puzzle than actual solutions.

A reply came much later; Makalaurë could have drifted into sleep if it took any longer.

“I don’t understand.”

It was a simple enough statement but not vague enough that Makalaurë could brush off. It was about Findekano and Nelyo, it was about his sister, Irisse and Tyelkormo.

“Why didn’t he tell me? And my sister, my sister who is already the talk of gossip in Tirion. Why does he still insist on not telling me.”

“Oh, but they did. Did they seem to be hiding it at the dinner table?”

Turukáno took several deep breaths as if processing the information and validating. Then, he exhaled as if relieved and answered softly.

“N-no.”

Makalaurë’s head was pounding, as if he laid it on a rock, the uncomfortable feeling grating slowly on his nerves. He felt like biting into something. He propped himself on the bed and turned on the lamp.

“I know it made you uncomfortable,” he supplied, imagining exactly how it felt when he found out about his brother and Findekano.

It took Turukáno a while to fluff the pillow and put it behind his back as he sustained his great height on the headrest of the bed. He looked solemn and regal, as his father, like a faraway star that glimmered enticingly but at the same time discouraged through distance.

“Not really,” was his response. It surprised Makalaurë a little but he took his time to actually look at his cousin. He was a flickering pale light, blue like an overcast sky of Formenos, straight and tranquil on the surface. The strain collected in between his eyebrows, slightly shaking with concentration, it revealed itself in the quiver of the eyelids and the shadows projected on the opposite wall. Makalaurë watched in rapture their delicate rising and falling, the calming breaths meant for his heart, which beat like a wild drum in the cage of his chest.

“I did not… expect that.” He said, allowing surprise to lace his tone. “Don’t you find it even a little bothersome?”

Big, glimmering eyes fixed Makalaurë with intensity. Turukáno shifted again, gathering his legs, untangling them from the blankets. His movements were coltish, snappy. He shook his head, still fixing Makalaurë with those haunting eyes of his.

“I can understand, because my brother is happy. Russandol is happy. You… don’t seem too bothered either,” he finished his silent assessment.

“Are you happy, though?”

“What do you mean?”

“Are you? Do you like it here, being strung along by your brother, following his every pull, retreating with every push? What about you, your desires?”

He reminded Makalaurë of an owl, observant and wise. No, calculating, penetrating with his mind the depth and mysteries of the night.

“I _am_ pleased.” His cousin’s voice insisted and Makalaurë noticed the tremor in his cheek, the crack in his voice.

What possessed him in that moment was utterly foreign but it pressed hard into Makalaurë’s mind until he obeyed its call.

“And what do you know of pleasure?” he purred, his voice a soft caress. If Turukáno was a sombre owl, perched high on a bough, with a perfect vision and in a perpetual search for a higher meaning, Makalaurë was a jaguar, ready to drag the prey down from the tree in its jaw, anticipating the warmth of blood on his lips. It was a delicious anticipation.

“I know…” and Makalaurë wanted to laugh at how much Turukáno tried to appear unfettered and in control. Makalaurë ’s hand travelled down his chest, skimmed the junction of thigh and hip, then dragged back up, like a lazy paw.

He touched his jaw, gently, turning his head towards the light. Look, he wanted to say, do you have any idea how you tempt me? But Makalaurë reined it in. Turukáno was his cousin, Nolofinwë’s son, it wouldn’t do to frighten him so. His hand softened and his fingers became pale touches on his cousin’s chin- he’d grown into a man, indeed.

“Of course, you do. I never underestimated you, cousin.” Words like pebbles, sand grating his tongue, Makalaurë smiled despite all that. “Forgive me for doubting you.” He retreated from his cousin’s form and turned to look at the state of his room. He wanted to rise and leave the bed, perhaps wander the cool house and watch the stars as he did on such nights.

Turukáno’s hand, like a vine, stopped him. “Stay.” His touch was fire.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed!  
> Comments, kudos and suggestions are highly appreciated!


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